The Sunday Posts 2016/ Sleep Weel.

Sleep weel, my bairnie, sleep.
The lang, lang shadows creep,
The fairies play on the munelicht brae
An' the stars are on the deep.

The auld wife sits her lane
Ayont the cauld hearth-stane,
An' the win' comes doon wi' an eerie croon
To hush my bonny wean.

The bogie man's awa',
The dancers rise an fa'
An' the howlet's cry frae the bour-tree high
Comes through the mossy shaw.

Sleep weel, my bairnie, sleep.
The lang, lang shadows creep,
The fairies play on the munelicht brae
An' the stars are on the deep.

Murdoch McLean

Meaning of unusual words:
bairnie=child
munelicht brae=moonlit hillside
her lane=alone
Ayont=beyond
croon=wailing song
bogie man=ghost
howlet=owl
bour-tree=elder tree
shaw=flat ground at the foot of a hill

The Sunday Posts 2016/ Valentines Day

Sure Proof

I can no more describe you
than I can put a thing for the first time
where it already is.

If I could make a ladder of light
or comb the hair of a dream girl with a real comb
or pour a table into a jug...

I'm not good at impossible things
And that is why I'm sure
I will love you for my ever.

Norman MacCaig. 1968
Photo by Alistair

The Sunday Posts 2016/ Let Me Die A Young Mans Death

Let me die a young man's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good humour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an all-night party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a young man's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death   

Roger McGough.
Photo By Alistair.